


Baby, you're my favourite gift

by QueenBoo



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Angst, Romance, Santa Clause, a very booshy christmas, howard just wants to protect him, vince is a sweet innocent that must be protected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: Howard has successfully maintained the ruse that Santa Claus is real since Vince was 8 years old, and he would have kept it up for another good few years. Had Naboo not happened.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Boosh Secret Santa 2020!





	Baby, you're my favourite gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BadBadBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadBadBucky/gifts).



> For Bucky! As part of the Boosh Secret Santa exchange, this prompt was a joy to work with, and I do hope you enjoy your Secret Santa gift!
> 
> An extra thank you to my Boosh Wife, @SilentOrator, for supporting me, letting me bounce ideas around, and keeping me sane while I overthought every aspect of Christmas.

When people think of the world’s best kept secrets most of them would immediately jump to the great conspiracies. They’d picture fort bloody Knox or all those abandoned tunnels under London that everyone knows exist but no one ever goes into. Most people would think about secret societies, but Howard lived with a pretty prolific member of a society that was certainly _intended_ to be secret--not that they did a good job of keeping it that way. The second any of them got within five feet of an illicit substance; it was shaman-show-off hour. Some people might even wonder what secret ingredient Vince puts into his face cream that means he ages approximately a month every year. 

Howard’s version of the world’s best kept secret was a little more festive in nature. 

Twenty years. 

For twenty carefully planned, choreographed to the letter, insanely complicated years, Howard had been keeping the biggest secret this side of the North Pole. 

Meaning at twenty-eight; Vince still believes that Santa Clause is real. 

Now, statistically, children will grow out of their belief by the time they're eight or nine years old. They’ll be passed the torch by their parents, sat down to have the inevitable chat that will take away one of the last vestiges of their childhood, and maybe they will understand. Maybe they will do as children do and shed a few tears over the thing no matter how inconsequential it is in the grand scheme of life. 

Howard had grown out of believing a lot earlier than that. He was a critical thinker, you see. A man of science. A deeply logical child. He didn't believe in stories as easily as other children. When he demanded bedtime stories he had wanted the tales to be believable. No matter how his parents had tried, and they really had tried, to have him hold onto that magic for as long as possible--until he was at least nine--it simply wasn’t to be. At the age of six Howard had asked one too many questions about this fictional father figure and began to piece together answers that simply didn’t add up.

Howard had stopped believing in Santa a lot earlier than his peers. 

But then he'd met Vince. 

The boy had stumbled into his path--literally fell out of a bush and right into Howard--while Howard was walking home from school one afternoon. There were leaves sticking out of his blonde hair, his knees were scraped, cheeks red and tear stained because a feral tom-cat had stolen his favourite scarf. Howard had instantly thought him the strangest creature he’d ever come across, yet, the need to protect him had followed soon after. 

They spent that afternoon chasing down the aforementioned feline thief and trying to get the child his accessory back. They didn’t succeed, but Vince had been grateful for the help anyway. 

The rest was easy. 

Naturally, most were sceptical of the friendship lasting. If nothing else Howard had been twelve years old, and Vince only seven. The older boy had back then--and since, to be honest--had always struggled to get on well with anyone and so the fact he had not only made a friend in a younger child but managed to sustain the relationship was nothing short of a miracle. 

Not that either of them ever noticed the age gap, rather, it seemed to be a source of much needed change for the pair of them. Meaning, when around Howard, a baby faced Vince had done everything in his power to behave more maturely than his years would allow. In turn, while in Vince’s company, Howard would let himself enjoy the childhood he had thus far not been interested in. 

They’d run through the park hand in hand trying to catch butterflies and negotiating with woodland creatures. Then settle in Howard’s bedroom with a book or two and talk about what they wanted to be when they grew up. 

Having spent so much time in each other’s company, naturally, Howard starts to notice things about his new young friend. For example, he doesn’t actually know where Vince lives. Where he goes when he’s not in his own school classes or stuck to Howards side, he doesn’t have a clue. Vince will tell tales about the jungle like an eager child excited to be heard for once. All he really eats is sweets unless Howard shares his lunch, and he’s used to Howard’s grumpy nature so quickly it's almost like it is expected. 

But mostly, Vince doesn't have a clue about Christmas. 

They've known each other almost a year when the holiday rolls around and Vince is _enamoured_ with it instantly. They never put lights up in the 'jungle' he says. There's no present swapping there, how would animals buy presents? His wide blue eyes stare up at the Moon family Christmas tree with such wonder Howard’s tiny little heart aches for him. 

Vince at the time, had no idea who Father Christmas was… Which did rather deflate Howard's superior ego as he'd been about to inform the child of _that_ little falsehood. 

So rather than tell him, _‘Don't worry Vince, it's just a stupid tale they tell kids. You're probably best off not knowing_ ’. Howard tells him the story.

He has no idea why. Realistically it can only do the child more harm than good to lie to him now only for the tales to unravel in a few years time. It’s not like he’d be missing out, anyway, Howard’s parents were already relishing in having a child around that actually _behaved like a child_ so… they would of course be spoiling him. He didn’t need to know. He didn’t need the magic. 

But Howard wants him to have it. Vince lived and breathed magic, so Howard tells him about Santa Clause. And Vince, of course, takes his word as gospel. 

"So he just comes and leaves you presents?" he'd asked, tiny hands balled into fists and tucked to his chest. Any minute now he’d start vibrating with excitement. Vince loved presents. That was no secret. "But why?" 

“Because it’s the kind thing to do.” Howard had said, as authoritative as possible for a twelve year old. “But he watches us all year, you see. Make sure we’re being good, because you have to prove you’ve earnt the kindness.” 

And that's how it came to pass that, at eight years old, Vince learnt about Father Christmas. 

Every year following that Howard had taken it upon himself to ensure that childlike wonder was never shattered. Howard never knew where Vince slept in his youth but it became a tradition for him to spend Christmas at Howard's House. The Moon parents had gotten what they wanted, a child who was unendingly enthusiastic about Christmas, whom they got to coddle every holiday season. Even throughout their teen years, Howard never found it in himself to break the ruse. 

Howard had witnessed a 15 year old Vince scribbling a Christmas list with his wonky handwriting and terrible spelling. Years later he had seen the same energy in an 18 year old Vince who almost threw a tantrum over missing out on a sale item, but calmed himself with the thought that Father Christmas would see if he went mental. 

When they moved from home, to London to work in the Zooniverse, Howard had taken over his parents' tireless job and he had started making sure he was up later than Vince on Christmas eve night. He'd stash presents around the zoo so the man wouldn't find them and once he was sleeping soundly, he'd stack them under their feeble Christmas tree and watch Vince’s face light up in the morning with the realisation that Father Christmas had been. 

Nothing changed as they moved into the flat either. 

Hiding presents got easier but Vince's childlike view on the world meant he never once questioned the logic or truthfulness of a story he'd first heard when he was eight. 

And after twenty years, Howard didn't regret a thing. By far the thing he looked forward to most about the festive season was seeing Vince's joy explode from him like sunrays early on Christmas Morning, as once again, he was deemed to be worthy of gifts by an unseen figure. 

He'd never thought about when it might be pertinent to bring the whole charade to a close. To be quite honest, Howard had been set to spend the rest of his life protecting this part of Vince's psyche--the part that never really moved past childhood. 

He'd have done it forever. Had Naboo not opened his drugged-up alien mouth. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

There are only a few days left until Christmas, which means a few things in the Moon/Noir household. A few very specific things that when mixed together like a cocktail equates to less fruity drink and more Molotov. 

Firstly, Vince is bouncing off the walls. The man is a walking manifestation of hyper to begin with but the closer it ticks to the big day the more energized he becomes. Each new dawn breaks with a squeal from Vince about exactly how long they have left until the madness ends, and each ensuing day is passed with chatter at the speed of sound and the distinct click of heels on the floor as Vince skips to and fro on his daily business. 

Second thing to note, Howard is stressed. Its not got anything to do with his gargantuan secret either. Vince and his Santa Clause plot is one of the only things Howard finds easy in at this time of year, mostly because the man will literally write out a list of what he'd like and seals it with a kiss, handing it to Howard to be 'posted'. No, the Santa lie is fine. What stresses Howard is everything else about this time of year. The unpredictability of the British weather, the crowds, the same five or six songs on repeat on the radio. Honestly, it's a lot of faff and he's very little patience for it. 

Lastly, the final ingredient in this recipe for disaster, was their non-human landlord. Who, despite having been on this planet longer than both Howard and Vince combined, still didn't really grasp (nor want to grasp) human traditions. Including Christmas. Around this time of year he mostly kept out of the way of the hurricane of sugar and hyperactivity that was Vince, and he didn't need an excuse to stay out of Howard's way. He did anyway. 

The only thing with the Shaman's disinterest was that, since he wasn't doing much to help with Christmas, Naboo could be a little bit of a hindrance. Especially when he spends most of his days cooking up space brownies and puffing on whatever it is that makes that misty pink smoke come out of his nose. 

It's perhaps the combination of these very unique circumstances that lead to this extra stressful day in particular. 

Vince is on cloud nine, naturally, and had decided that their Christmas lights needed to be fiddled with. The plain white lights currently strung on their tree weren't nearly festive enough, he had declared, and instead multicoloured (and blinking) ones were much more appropriate for the aesthetic of the flat. 

Every year they had this argument. 

Vince almost pitches a fit because Howard was _trying_ to help. If he was going to be forced to put up with the headache inducing blinking rainbow monstrosities Vince insisted on, then he wanted it to at least look neat. Howard is attempting to make the way the lights moved around the tree go in concentric circles spiralling up the branches rather than the jagged haphazard mess Vince likes to do them in. But Vince isn't having it. 

One snap of _'Howard no one wants an anally-retentive Christmas tree'_ and Howard's watching the tantrum form. 

"Don't be showing out, Vince." Howard warns. It's all the man needs to settle himself down, as if he could sense the all seeing eyes of Saint Nick watching him. 

Howard kept up this charade for many reasons, for Vince's joy, for his naivety, for the childhood that he seemed so robbed of when Howard had met him. But mostly, because it was a pretty good way of making him behave himself around the festive period. 

Naboo sat, sipping his tea, watching the pair of them with a Calculating gaze. And as soon as Vince had taken one deep breath and calmly muttered, “I reckon Santa will forgive me this time. It's a monstrosity, Howard, he surely likes his Christmas like mine. Exciting. All colourful like!"

"Vince…" Naboo starts, frowning as if confused. "You know Santa isn't real?" 

Howard nearly spills the tea he's holding all over the floor. Frankly, he's surprised Vince doesn't react any further than whipping his head around to frown at the little man. 

Naboo knows he's fucked up the second it was out of his mouth too, if the look on his face is anything to go by. His brain catches up with his mouth and his smaller frame goes tense under the glare that Vince is giving him. Naboo might not understand the human traditions. But he understood that it was important to Vince and therefore by extension, Howard. He understood that as strange as it was for a man of nearly thirty to still believe in Santa Claus, there were a few things in this world Vince should never be without. 

His straighteners and a basic makeup set, obviously. But also, his innocence and imagination. 

And Naboo had just robbed him of both. 

"You what?" Vince snaps. And Howard finches at the sound. It wasn't even harsh. It wasn't biting or angry it was just confused. 

The little man was eight years old again trying to understand why everyone looked at him strangely when he told his jungle tales. Why other children flocked to him and adored him but still giggled and said things like 'you make up such good stories' when as far as Vince was concerned, this was his reality. 

Like he didn't know what was his reality anymore. 

"Nothing." Naboo snaps just as quickly, stares down into his brew as if it will save him. 

Just as quick, Howard is muttering. "Don't listen to him, he's off his nut on space brownies."

But Vince, no matter how naïve in some areas of his life was incredibly sharp in others. Another one of the contradictions he so joyfully boasted. He catches onto people's guilt like a shark scenting blood in the water, and he won't let go once he's latched on.

"What do you mean, Naboo?" This time his tone is hard. Cold like steel, even Naboo, the blank faced wonder, seems to shrink under it. God he knows he's messed up. 

Though his answer to this is to apparently not say a word. Vince turns that furious-cum-terrified gaze on Howard. “What does he mean?" 

Oh god. 

It's an out that Naboo takes, allowing the blame to be directed at Howard rather than himself, he mutters something like _'I'll leave you to it'_ and then he's gone. Shuffled off in the direction of the back rooms and leaving Howard to flounder instead. 

Vince just keeps looking at him, waiting for his answers. 

And here's the thing, Howard likes to boast that he is one of his generation's greatest actors but truthfully? He's an outright terrible liar. Just awful. Utterly hopeless, especially where Vince is concerned. The fact he had carried off this ruse for so long had nothing to do with Howards ability to lie and everything to do with Vince's ability to _believe._ But there was no hope of that now. 

Caught on the spot he panics and just gapes at him and Vince knows. 

How could he not know. 

But, shockingly. He doesn't take it as Howard expects. There's no yelling. He doesn't storm out. Arguably it's worse what he does. He just sags into the sofa, drops the Christmas lights to the floor and puts his head in his hands. There's a hitching breath that is loud in the room, loud enough that Howard feels the weight of it on his shoulders. 

Vince was trying his best not to cry. 

"Has he ever been real?" Vince asks after an uncomfortable period of time just taking deep calming breaths. He peers up at Howard with watery eyes and it hurts his very soul how sad he looks. "This isn't one of those things where you blinked him out of existence is it? Like that time we accidentally got Bollo erased and had to reset all the timeline and stuff with Naboo?" 

It's not a gigantic leap, when Naboo keeps endless amounts of paraphernalia and alternate universes pressed together like the pages of a book in his back bedroom. He doesn't blame Vince at all for coming to that conclusion. 

And he _could_ lie. He could say yes, that's it, and spend the next few days taking Vince about in pointless quests until he could say _‘well done little man we got him back’_. 

But looking at Vince now, the shadow of stubble on his unshaven face. The bags under his eyes from last night's late partying session. His fashionable clothes, the perfect hair, the heels that force him as close to Howard's height as he can get without simply ordering stilts. Maybe it's time, as much as Howard hates it, that he gets the truth. Everybody has to grow up eventually, and it was Vince’s turn. 

"No, he's never been real." Howard rasps. He feels the blow of that admission in the way Vince's face crumbles. 

Even then, the man still doesn't leave the room. It's perhaps a sign of his maturity, Howard thinks, that he is forcing himself to sit here and hear him out where usually he would have vacated whatever space the negativity was taking up. Vince hates to be sad, and he hates being in the room with sad too--he simply isn't manufactured to handle it appropriately. 

"So why… Why ever tell me he was? I don't understand?" Vince is managing to keep his tears at bay but it's just barely. Howard feels a lump in his own throat in response. 

"I just…" Howard swallows thickly. "You seemed so… You'd never had a Christmas before Vince. I thought, maybe you deserved one. A proper one."

This answer doesn't satisfy him at all. "If he's not real then surely people have 'proper' Christmases all the time without him so why _lie."_

The Word is harsh as it slides from Vince's tongue into the air. It cuts Howard deeper than perhaps even Vince intended it to. Howard flinches and Vince briefly looks remorseful for having done it but then there’s just silence. Suffocating thick silence that neither of them can seem to wade through. Vince's pale hands are trembling. His eyes dulled of all their sparkle. Howard's just witnessed his best friend age by about twenty years with one swift admission and it's heart-breaking. And don't get him wrong, Vince was not actually a child. That much was clear in the way he moved through the world--he dated, he drank, he earnt his own money and spent it in ridiculous places. Vince was a tease and charming and occasionally a ruthless bitch when people crossed him. 

Vince was not a child. He was just untouched by certain parts of this world, innocent and trusting and pretty vulnerable in certain aspects of his character. Howard had wanted to preserve those parts of his soul as best as he could.

And look where it had gotten them. 

"So how does it work then? This web of deceit you've got going on?" It is almost certainly supposed to be a demand, but Vince's voice comes across as nothing more than tired. 

Howard clears his throat. He's still hovering in the centre of the room. Awkwardly between Vince and their Christmas tree. Naboo may have left the room but Howard would bet he was listening intently through his bedroom door; this was the kind of human drama he claimed to hate but would never miss out on. 

"Um, well… It was my parents who did it the first few years." Howard admits. Remembers how Vince would always come and stay with them Christmas eve, right the way through until boxing day. "I'd never really been into it so they were overjoyed to have you around." 

"And after that? When we left home?" 

"I would.. Well you'd always hand me your Christmas list--" 

Vince's breath hitches. As if he is only now putting the pieces together of a con going on almost all of his life. "You'd just keep it? Get things off my list and what, hide ‘em until Christmas?" Howard nods his head shamefully. Another realisation his Vince. "That's why I always go to bed before you… Its--Its not because you like to appreciate silence on Christmas eve night. Its so you can make sure I don't notice you creeping around like a tiny eyed weirdo pretending to be someone he's not!" 

“Vince--"

"Please shut up for a second. I'm actually quite mad." Vince's arms have folded over his chest and the looks he's sending Howard is less mad, more, distressed, but, well, Howard doesn't want to test him. So he does as he's told. He shuts his mouth and waits patiently for Vince to decide he's ready to talk again. 

It doesn't happen for a while. Vince is chewing on his lip. Howard can see thoughts passing behind his eyes like storm clouds. 

Eventually, he sags a little. The tense line of his shoulders relaxes. He still looks upset, but not furious. "I'm not mad at _you_. Well. I am a little but it’s... Everything. This sucks." He sighs. 

"I know little man," Howard comforts. He feels brave enough to cross the room and settle in the sofa beside Vince, offering him a comforting pat on the back. 

"I still don't understand why… Why did you keep it up for this long, I don't…?"

"I suppose I knew how happy it made you. Having that tradition when you didn't have any before."

For some reason, this comment in particular makes Vince's face twist in upset, but Howard assumes this is perhaps just another reaction to all his turbulent emotions warring it out in his chest. Vince always was quite expressive. He couldn't help it, but often so much so that the feelings literally fought it out to be expressed. 

The dominant one right now is sadness. 

He doesn't say anything more. Just nods his head, not in understanding but acceptance. 

Howard tries to broach the topic again. "Do you want to finish decorating the Christmas tree?" 

Vince looks over at the thing, half covered in blinking lights as it is. With this new mood in the room it looks rather depressing. "No I think I'll let you sort it. Gonna have a bath."

Which was Vince code for a sulk, yes the man loved baths, but as much as he pretended he wasn't as anal-retentive as Howard, he did have a strict schedule when it came to his self care routine. And bath time was never this early… Unless he needed the time to pout and whine to himself. 

Howard let's him leave. All things considered Vince had handled that pretty well. He's almost certain that after his bath and a good night's sleep the whole thing will have been forgotten. It's Vince's way to operate like that, cleanse himself of the negativity and return to default sunshine within twelve hours. 

Howard heaves a sigh and scoops the forgotten Christmas lights off their floor. He best finish the decorating then. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

Vince does not perk up again by the morning. 

In fact, he goes further into sadness than Howard had initially thought possible for this kind of problem. Normally Vince's moods would come all rushing out at once, the worst would be over within an hour or two; the dam would break and the flood of repressed emotions would spill forth. Then, with a decent night sleep the walls go back up. Sunshine returns from behind the rain clouds. But this? Vince's initial outburst seemed to be a crack in the structure rather than the actual collapse... and Howard is just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Vince wakes but his usual exclaimed countdown of how many days left until Christmas doesn't come. He moves about the flat solemnly, lethargic, generally his energy is a bit dulled. It’s like watching a wind up toy reaching the end of it’s battery life; it’s still going but no one knows for how much longer. Frankly, it’s completely terrifying for Howard to witness. It’s foreign and uncomfortable. It's ice on his insides; the harsh biting chill of December freezing in his veins now that Vince's sunshine isn't present to keep him thawed. Howard isn’t sure how he can fix this, but he knows he has to try. 

The entire morning passes with no inspiration; it isn't until he noon sunshine casts shadows into the flat that Howard begins to feel like the clock is ticking on his window of opportunity. The sooner one cleans up a mess, the less likely it is to stain. The spilled remnants of Vince's Christmas spirit held the potential to leave a noticeable mark on their friendship if he wasn't careful. 

“Fancy a film?” Howard asks eventually; they’re lucky in that Naboo mostly doesn’t care about the shop this close to Christmas. He probably would _like_ for it to be open, but he also wasn’t going to be the one to try and make Vince handle any professional responsibility at this time of year. So, if they happen to open because Howard has a stronger sense of professionalism than most, he's content. If they're not open, but it means that Vince is at least not throwing a tantrum all over Naboo's peaceful wintertime--even better. 

Thus, they’re not doing much today. 

Howard’s been getting on with some chores so that they don’t have be done again for the next little while. A spring clean was essential, but so was a winter one. Howard, if he can, tries to get the flat sparkling before the big day--that way when he does nothing Christmas Eve through Boxing Day, he doesn't feel lazy. Just prepared. He’s working through the mountain of laundry they always have currently. Next up will likely be to sweep and mop the kitchen. Hoovering the living room, after that, closely followed by a deep clean of the bathroom.

During his Christmas Clean-up (affectionately dubbed as such by Vince), Vince was normally hovering close over his shoulder. He would never help, don't be daft, but seeing as it was the holidays he seemed to be extra clingy with Howard. Every year Vince came up with a new obscure job title for himself--last year he was in charge of preventing cleaning related boredom through all his chattering--that essentially translated as the younger man being a little desperate for the attention and clinging to Howard's side in order to get it.

Up to now in this day, Vince had been lain out on the sofa like a broken doll, flicking half-heartedly through a copy of Cheekbone. Hadn't looked up once as Howard tidied around him, and he was beginning to feel a sharp stab of rejection deep in his chest every hour that went by with no acknowledgment from his friend. 

At the question, though, Vince does blink up at him. Big blue eyes looking more confused than anything. “What?” 

“Do you want to watch a film?” Howard repeats. It’s awkward, even Vince knows it’s awkward. Those ocean blue eyes are looking anywhere but Howard's face--and guilt related eye-darting is supposed to be _his_ thing. Howard doesn’t typically have to ask Vince to do a holiday related activity, and it seems that Vince had maybe been hoping that tradition would remain in place despite some others coming loose like badly hung stockings. 

It's at least thirty seconds before Vince stutters out a response. “Uh… Nah you’re alright actually. I’m not really in the mood just now.” 

“Oh right.” Howard stalls, he had been sure that would work. Getting Vince settled down in front of _The Snowman_ was usually a sure fire way of ramping his excitement up to 11. Howard preferred _It's a Wonderful Life_ himself, but Vince found particular joy in the idea of a creature made from snow coming to life and going on adventures with his young friend endlessly appealing. so Howard would have allowed it for the sake of clawing back normalcy from the jaws of obscurity. “Well, maybe I can get on with my jobs in peace then.” 

It a weak joke, there's tinsel out there that would bear the weight of Vince's forced smile better than Howard or his pathetic joke can. The star on the proverbial Christmas tree is when Vince gives a breathy (empty) "Yeah," in response. As if he was in on the banter, and then he’s back to his magazine. Howard might as well be alone in the room. He’s not, obviously, Vince is five feet from him. But he’s not present in any way other than physically. Howard doesn’t think he’s even reading, he’s just staring blankly at the page and keeping very, very still.

He’s playing dead. 

Howard doesn't have much choice but to leave him be. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

“Vince?” 

Silence. The flat is deadly quiet. The very air itself is still but Howard feels it thicken in response to his call of the younger man's name. It's been almost three hours since the incident on the sofa and like ships passing in the night, neither of the flat's inhabitants had crossed paths in any meaningful way. Vince had been sneaking around the flat, to the bathroom, to make tea, to change his clothes, almost as if terrified by the very idea of having to face Howard again. 

Which, while rude, Howard had no intention of blaming him for. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do if he suddenly discovered Vince had been lying to him for almost twenty years--though he isn't entirely sure what kind of lie Vince had not only the intelligence but motivation to carry off for that long. 

After a full minute passes with still no response, Howard raises his voice just a tad louder, and calls again. "Vince!"

“... What?” The uncertainty is only a little bit funny. 

“Come in here.” 

Howard listens carefully, hears the slide of fabric--Vince finally rising from the sofa--the pad of socked feet on their floor as Vince moves anxiously through the flat. He’s hesitant, which is actually the most reasonable reaction, usually if Howard is calling for him to come into another room then it means he’s about to tell him off for having made a mess. This time though, Howard’s trying another rather insane method of cheering up his flatmate. 

Vince peers round the corner carefully, eyes and hair popping round the doorframe before the rest of his body follows. “What?” He asks again, more confident now that he’s surveyed the room and hasn’t found anything he’s going to get in trouble for. 

“I need your help.” 

And thankfully, Vince’s eyes do sparkle a little. It’s not the bright shooting star his interest usually is, but it’s the glint of a fairy lights in amongst the branches of a tree.

It’s enough for Howard to latch onto and go forward with his plan. “You always say that you need the perfect Christmas Day outfit,” Howard says, Vince nods his head along, brows knitted in curiosity. He’s hanging on the edge of every word and it’s just where Howard needs him. “And you always complain at me for _my_ outfit choices so…” 

Howard waves his hand at the open wardrobe they are stood before, Vince glances to it, glances back, and frowns at him. “What?” He repeats again, Howard is worried that the Santa revelation has knocked all other words from his head. 

“I’m asking you to help me choose the Christmas day outfit so you don’t whine about it.” 

“I don’t whine,” Vince snaps, but then quickly changes gears on his indignation. “You never listen to me when I suggest what clothes you should wear. _Especially_ at Christmas. _'I’ll wear what I wanna wear'_ , you always say.” 

“Yes well,” 

“So what you trying to do?” And if once, just once, Vince could not be a predator with the outward appearance of a stuffed animal that would be fantastic. Being cute on the outside but forged in the heart of the jungle with hunters as babysitters meant Vince was cut from a very specific kind of cloth. Vince scents weakness in the air like perfume, and he knows how to play on it. Howard often finds himself cursing Vince's upbringing; because it’s more than a little intimidating if he’s honest with himself, the way those icy eyes cart from his head to his toes like he can see his anxieties written on his skin. “I’m not _that_ daft Howard.” He grumbles. “And you ain’t _that_ good a liar either. Just spit it out whatever it is.” 

Howard’s shoulders sag in defeat. “I’m just trying to help.” 

Vince briefly stiffens, but otherwise there is no reaction. He camouflages himself with his features; remains seemingly calm and detached from the inherently dramatic situation they have found themselves in. “Alright. That’s fine," he says, it's spark enough to light a flame of hope low in Howard's gut. "But I’m just not in the mood, okay?”

Not often Howard feels like Vince is the mature one between them. The one speaking sense, but this is certainly one of those rare occasions. Howard is sent back to when he was twelve years old, sitting beside Vince at the park while the younger boy explains that Howard shouldn’t be so afraid of talking to people--cause he’s pretty genius really.

In other words, he’s completely exposed. Vulnerable. Full of a misguided hope that he isn't sure how to handle. 

“Okay.” Howard agrees weakly, perhaps he can allow himself to be optimistic enough to think that it is _just_ a mood. That this will pass. "Alright, I'll stop bothering you."

Content his message got through, Vince turns on his heel to leave the room. Before he goes though, he pauses briefly by the door. “Howard?” He's shy as he utters the name, kicking his feet against the ground and twisting his hands anxiously. “I’ll probably be fine tomorrow, so... don’t feel bad about it, yeah?” 

Easier said than done, Howard thinks, but he agrees anyway. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

With three days left until Christmas, Howard's day dawns with as much optimism as it is physically possible for someone like him to have in a situation exactly like this one. 

Which translates as; not a whole lot. 

After all if you were going to rank the people on this planet who knew Vince Noir best, the only person who could possibly come above Howard in that list would be Vince himself. And he hadn't exactly sounded convinced about his emotional recovery by this morning, either. 

Still. This hoping for the best business must have some use, otherwise why would Vince be doing it all of the time? 

The hope is short-lived. Howard drags himself from his restful state only to find that Vince is not in his bed. The sheets have been tossed hurriedly aside. The gold boots abandoned the night before are missing and so is Vince's stylish winter coat that usually hangs right beside Howard's on the back of their bedroom door. There's no _need_ for Howard to search the flat for his missing little man. The context clues are there, it is plain as day that despite it being barely 9am (a lie in for Howard--but it was Christmas) Vince has already woken himself up _and_ vacated the premises. Howard still looks, though. Just to be sure. 

Vince is definitely not at home. 

It's a development that makes Howard anxious despite the fact it's not _wholly_ unusual. Vince goes out all of the time. Especially at Christmas. The man spent every day of his life flexing the wings of his social butterfly status and making sure no one on his long list of contacts felt left out. Whether it be Christmas coffee dates, festive parties, or even a trip to the shops. Everyone got to see Vince Noir during the holiday season. 

The sticking point was that Vince had chosen to creep from the room before Howard was even awake--a good two hours before _Vince_ is normally even awake--and disappear into the cold winter morning just _days_ after his world had been turned upside down with the Santa Clause revelation. 

So yes. Howard was worried. 

It's time to take some pretty drastic measures in order to get their Christmas back on track. 

With all the defiance of a man pushed almost entirely to his limit, Howard goes through his morning routine as quickly as required when a mission like this is looming. He showers, combs his hair (and his moustache), he dresses in his finest baking clothes and then heads to the kitchen to dig out his apron. It's a mess of a thing, decorated with sequins and the odd patch of brown corduroy. But Vince had made it for him years ago when he was less proficient with a sewing machine; Howard was loathe to throw it away no matter how Vince had offered to make him a new one if he wanted, one more his style. Howard liked hanging on to the indicators of their history as much as possible. 

Perhaps that's why he was so terrified of not being able to fix this mistake. Christmas together was such a big part of their history, what if he couldn't claw this back? 

Howard spends the rest of the day baking his paranoia into submission. Not wholly unusual for this time of year, they did require a fair few festive treats to tide them over--Vince was practically fuelled by them after all--but typically it was an activity saved for Christmas eve. The little man hovering eagerly at his elbow and begging to lick the spoon, designating himself _'Howard's taste tester'_ and even sometimes throwing caution to his perfect clothes and getting involved as much as Howard was comfortable to allow. 

Which meant he'd sometimes instruct Vince to stir or--if he was lucky--to use their vast array of cookie cutters to make shapes in the dough. 

As much as Howard has already shattered so many of their traditions this year, he feels it's okay to break this one too. In his defence, it wasn't like Vince was all too interested in keeping any of the others up either, and if he hadn't kept himself busy today he would have lost his mind fretting over the changes in his friend. 

The potential changes in their friendship. 

By the time the downstairs door unmissably creaks open and there is the sound of boots on their stairs, Howard has lost count of the number of Gingerbread Men and Christmas cookies that he has created. There's a pudding in the oven, and he's got Icing drying on his cheek, he can feel it. What a picture he must make, Vince is likely going to see this madness and either forgive him on the spot (since he is _clearly_ insane) or decide this is the last straw and cut ties with him for good (because of the aforementioned insanity).

Oddly enough Vince, who reaches the top of the stairs with his cheeks rosy-pink from the biting chill of British wintertime, doesn't appear anything other than _amazed_ that this has gone on without him. 

Which is just a tad confusing, all things considered. 

"You baked!" Vince cries excitedly, he's slipping his coat off his shoulders and dumping it over the back of the chair as he ventures further into their little kitchenette. “Genius, you normally don’t do this until Christmas eve.” 

The question is there without Vince having to explicitly state it. Why the sudden change in plans? 

And wrongly, Howard assumes that this is the signal he has been waiting for. Vince is smiling, he’s slipping a cookie from the plate and into his mouth. The man had come home bustling with energy and immediately engaged with him in a way he had thus far not been able to. It was surely a good sign. 

“Well,” Howard begins carefully, clearing his throat in trepidation. “Can’t go wrong with a few treats can you?” 

“Definitely not.” Vince agrees. Howard relaxes into the interaction. 

This is it, they have saved it. Vince may not be wholly himself again; he still shifts his weight on his feet a little anxiously, he still peers up through his fringe in that way he does when he’s holding a little something back. Shy and nervous. But the smile on his face is his _real_ smile, and the warmth in his eyes is as genuine as it had ever been. 

“So, where have you been all morning then, Christmas shopping?” Howard asks conversationally, it settles them both if they can carry on as normal. The timer for the Christmas pudding dings, Howard spins on his heel to pull it from the oven as Vince reaches for a Gingerbread man. 

“Went to see Leroy, actually.” The way Vince chirps the answer makes Howard beam. “Had to ask him a few things.” 

“Like how you’re possibly going to get any Christmas shopping done this close to Christmas day?” Howard teases. Vince makes and attempt to stick his fingers into the bowl of frosting he’s mixing but Howard swats his hand away. “Every year you do this, when will you learn?” 

“You can’t blame me for trying.” Vince continues to nibble on the Gingerbread man’s biscuity toes. “And I will get presents sorted, don’t you worry.” 

"I worry constantly about anything involving you and responsible shopping." Howard drawls. He takes a moment to appreciate the way Vince laughs at that comment, allows himself to get distracted by layering Icing on top of the cake. 

Vince doesn't move, he hovers diligently at Howard's side and tracks each movement of his hands like a hunting dog tracking a hare. He's waiting until he'll be allowed a taste, Howard knows this, it's what keeps his face painted with amusement even as he's trying to focus. And when he's done, he stands up straight to appraise it from each angle, Vince offers his own approval with a sincere comment of, _"That looks well good, 'oward."_ but it's delivered with a cheeky glint to his eye and teeth bitten into his sugar sweet bottom lip. 

Howard shoots him a withering look and makes the mistake of uttering, "Good to know you're back to yourself then."

It's the comment that completely shatters the moment. All the normalcy that had been stacking back up again, a Jenga tower of complete and utter averageness, it all comes crashing down with Howard's wrong move. 

"What do you mean?" Vince is asking and yet it's clear in his gaze he knows the answer already. 

Howard doesn't know what to say. He certainly can't _look_ at Vince that's for sure. His guilt has come crashing back over him intensely, he's going to disappear under its weight. He's trapped, floundering. Neither of them say a word. 

The mood is killed, Howard is holding the murder weapon. He's caught bang to rights. 

"Howard… did you bake two days early because of the whole--" Vince doesn't say the words but as he waves his hand to signify their heavily decorated living room. It's clear what he means. 

Because of the whole Santa thing. 

"I…" The words catch in his throat. "I _might_ have."

Vince expresses his utter disappointment for that answer in the way he exhales the air from his lungs. Howard is looking at their feet and sees the way the weight shifts in Vince's form; doesn't have to look up to know he's gone from cocking one hip casually to instead standing ramrod straight. Stiff and uncomfortable. He can feel not only the sadness of the past day or two returning in steady waves but there a layer of something like _pity_ permeating the air between them. 

"Cheers, Howard. That was thoughtful of you." The words are by far much more pleasant than Howard expected, but the way they are delivered is hollow. Vince is reciting words he thinks he's expected to say, not what he means. 

Howard hates that there's suddenly this wall of falsehood existing between them. 

He hates it even more that he can't think of a things thing to say in repose to this perceived rejection. Because where Vince had arrived home full of glee and open to conversation, he's now shut himself off once more. There's nothing but beach ball Vince, the empty headed, lack-of-emotions, doll that Vince likes to pretend he is. The version of himself that is presented to the world but had never been for Howard to see. 

Howard always got the real version, or at least, he thought he did. 

"Right well," Howard finally dares to life his gaze from the floor. Vince's words aren't the only thing lacking conviction, the way he smiles at Howard is false too. It's doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm going to go and wash up then. I've got flour in places no self respecting baker should allow flour to be."

"Going in the bath then?" 

"Yeah." it's another code they both understand. That Howard, like Vince, was retreating in order to figure out exactly how he can fix this. "Don't touch that cake."

"I won't."

And the saddest thing is, Howard _knows_ he won't. Not now. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

They do not see each other again that evening. 

Howard emerges from his thinking time in the bath somewhat physically refreshed, but still emotionally drained. His plans to make another half-hearted attempt to rejuvenate the missing Christmas cheer in the flat are cut short by the fact Vince is nowhere to be found once again. 

The living room is conspicuously empty, as is their shared bedroom. Howard is about to resign himself to the fact that a Vince might have dashed from the flat to seek comfort in the flashing lights and writhing bodies of a Christmas night out when he strolls past Naboo's bedroom door and hears a pretty recognisable southern tone muttering through the wood of the door. There's a lisped response and the grunt of a gorilla, Howard can't make out any words but he doesn't need to. He knows what's happening. 

Vince is seeking comfort in the arms of those that haven't betrayed him. 

Completely understandable given the circumstances, Howard would say entirely logical in fact. Still stings. Howard is left to get on with his evening in solitude, praying that Naboo would at least _try_ to fight Howard's corner even just a little bit. The tiny shaman may never have understood why Howard kept up the ruse completely, but he had understood that _part_ of the reason was for Vince's happiness. 

Surely that had to count for something? 

It's around 8pm he hears the click of heels leaving Naboo's room, and it takes every ounce of willpower Howard has (which happens to be quite a lot) to not turn around and see where Vince will go. He's propped in the armchair, book in his lap and the radio playing on low volume. Loud enough that it's definitely distinguishable, so Vince won't think he's been sat here trying to hear the conversations through their thing walls. He definitely has. But the volume is set low low enough that he can definitely hear the shifting fabric and bated breath of Vince creeping through the flat. 

For someone who grew up in the jungle with animals famed for their stalking abilities, Vince was as subtle as an elephant sometimes. Though, Howard supposes he grew up with those too. 

From the shuffle of his feet and the rustle of his clothes, Howard tracks him all the way to the kitchen counter, hears the clink of porcelain--he’s stealing biscuits--and then the steps are retreating once more. 

Howard could turn around and demand to know what he was doing; entice the younger man into a playful argument over his treat thieving tendencies. But if the way the steps are being forcibly hushed is anything to go off, then Vince does not want to be caught. The conversation is not wanted, playful or otherwise. 

So Howard says nothing. He listens to Vince creep back to their bedroom and waits to hear the snick of the door closing. Then he waits some more. At least half an hour, just staring blankly at the page of his book without actually taking anything in. He ensures that the younger man is definitely not going to emerge for anymore muted attempted at cat burglary, and then Howard is snapping his novel closed and pushing himself from the chair. 

He’s across the flat in a few hurried but quiet steps, and knocking careful knuckles against Naboo’s bedroom door. He doesn’t have to be loud, the shaman hears better than a bat and has psychic tendencies to boot. He almost certainly knew that Howard was hovering anxiously outside of his door. 

Within a moment the door opens; Naboo dressed for bed (or undressed, shirtless as he is) frowns up at Howard intensely. “What do you want.” 

“Did you fix it?” Howard asks, pitches his voice low so Vince’s cat-like hearing might not be able to listen to this conversation. 

Naboo only frowns harder. “What you on about?” 

“Did you fix what _you_ broke?” 

To his credit, the tiny man does stiffen a little. The guilt might not display on Naboo’s features as overtly as it would on any regular empathetic human, but it’s present in the minute twitch of his brow and the darkening of his gaze. He knows, on some level, he was responsible for the animosity of the previous few days. 

Of course, even this realisation does nothing to stop him asserting, “I didn’t break anything.” 

Howard can only blink at him; he’s not sure if he’s furious at the Shaman for his brazen denial or if he should respect him for being able to stick to his guns that intensely. 

“Have you seen Vince _at all_ recently?” He demands, much to the utter annoyance of Naboo. “I haven’t seen him this glum since he scuffed up his white Gogo boots a week after getting them on sale.” 

Naboo’s eyeline travels from Howard’s head to his feet, the frown that had been forged in annoyance at being interrupted is now twisting into confusion. As if he can’t quite believe what Howard is asking him. 

"Yeah." The shaman says slowly, Howard shifts uncomfortably. "I have seen him. Though, I think maybe you _haven't._ "

Which completely baffles Howard. On a literal level, of course he has seen Vince. He's been looking at him for the better part of three days trying to analyse his behaviour and make sense of it. There's probably been more time looking at Vince than not looking at him, so what could their landlord possibly mean. There's not a chance to ask either, Naboo is already closing the door on him. Seemingly he has decided that discussing Vince angst is at the bottom of his priorities list. Howard just barely hears the petulant mutter of _"Maybe look harder."_ before the panel clicks into the frame and he's left hovering alone and confused in the hallway. 

Whatever message he might have intended to deliver, Howard resolves he definitely has to pay better attention to what's happening to his best friend. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

As much as he is loathed to admit when he is wrong, Howard takes Naboo's advice in the hopes that maybe--just maybe--up to now he'd been a little incorrect in his handling of the situation. 

Being proven wrong would be a pretty uncomfortable experience for a person like Howard, who was more likely to dig himself an early grave than admit when he had miscalculated a decision. Though, in this instance he thinks he could allow it. If only because if he _had_ miscalculated the source of Vince's upset (I.e that Santa isn't real) then there was always a chance he was approaching his comfort in the completely incorrect manner too. 

Which meant he could salvage this, so long as he found the right way to go about it. 

The day before Christmas eve dawns and with it, Howard's new plan of action. He does not intend to try and get any kind of Christmas related banter going. He will not persuade, cajole, tempt or bargain. In no way, shape, or form will he be trying to coerce Vince Noir into Christmas cheer. He is simply going to sit back, and observe. He's going to look harder, as per their landlord's suggestion. 

Howard gets on with his day as he normally would, allowing Vince his usual lie in. He showers, listens to jazz as he eats his breakfast and reads the paper. At around eleven he begins toasting bread ready for Vince, and like expected the man stumbles sleepily into the kitchen not long after the toaster pops. He accepts the bread from Howard with a yawn and immediately begins slathering it in Nutella. 

Howard grumbles about Vince's sugar intake, Vince only sticks his tongue out petulantly in response, and that's their morning. 

The rest of the day passes in much the same fashion. There's no insistence from Howard that Vince take part in anything. He doesn't attempt to change their schedule for the sake of cheering him up. They simply get on. Howard finishes some last minute gift wrapping. Curses and grumbles to himself as he folds multi-coloured wrapping paper as neatly as is possible. Vince perches on the sofa and watches him, offering to tear bits of tape and hold corners in place while Howard secures them. 

It's carefree and easy, and they share a brief giggle when the younger man thinks it appropriate to stick tape onto Howard's moustache. Howard gets back at him only a moment later when he places a sticky bow in the centre of Vince's forehead. 

"You get your mum the same box of chocolates every year," Vince sighs as he obediently places his finger where Howard's indicates 

"She likes them." Howard replies, tapes the flap of paper in place and moves Vince's hand with gentle fingers at his wrist. "Why would I get her anything else if I know she likes them and enjoys getting them every year."

"Dunno, change things up a bit." Vince shrugs at him, he's got one of the sticky-back bows in his hands, playing with the ribbons and tapping his fingertips against the sticky base. "Must be a bit dull getting the same thing every year."

"You ask for a bag of mixed sweets _every year_." Howard reminds him. 

No reply comes. Howard finishes taping the paper around the box and slaps a bow on top, and when he looks up Vince is just staring at him. There's no sadness there, not like there had been in days gone by, he seems more… Confused if anything. Like he's got a piece of a jigsaw puzzle but can't quite figure out where it's supposed to go. 

It's only then Howard realises he's put his foot in it again. Because Vince didn't ask Howard for sweets every year, he'd asked Santa. 

This time, however, rather than attempting to back-peddle, Howard just leaves it. He doesn't attempt to smother or apologise, something tells him it's not going to help. So Howard points at the stack of records he has purchased for his dad. "Hand me those." He instructs. 

Vince blinks at him for a moment, and then complies. He shuffles across the carpet on his knees and hands Howard the records, but then quietly excuses himself. Howard watches him go reluctantly but makes no move to prevent him from leaving. Vince's process was entirely his own and if Howard wanted to learn about it then he was going to have to see what he does when the older man wasn't interfering. Howard is confident Vince will be back when he's ready. 

Unsurprisingly, he is. Howard barely gets finished wrapping his father's gifts and the younger man has reappeared with a stack of Christmas cards and a bag of flying saucers. He no longer seems interested in assisting Howard's wrapping, it seems instead he is content to start making out (last minute, as usual) a mountain of Christmas cards. 

It's a positive step, he thinks, that Vince is at least willing to remain in the room with him. And his other personal habits don't appear to be effected byt this lingering dark cloud of uncertainty--he's still eating sweets and sugary foods like they're the secret to eternal youth. Vince still grins to himself as he makes out best wishes in his imperfect handwriting. They aren't engaging like how they might typically, but it isn't _awful._

The rest of the day passes in much the same fashion, too. Vince gets on with his thing, and Howard his. There's very little conversation, and Howard doesn't try to force any. Every once in a while, though, he will glance up, intent on checking up on Vince and his mood and will catch the younger man watching him with that same twist of confusion and pity that he had noticed earlier. 

Of course as soon as he's caught staring Vince will look away again. Go back to scribbling his name on one of the many cards. 

Howard can only draw one common conclusion from all of this behaviour which is… well, Vince isn’t uncertain about Christmas itself, like Howard had originally thought. Apparently, where Vince is struggling, is trying to understand Howard’s role in it. 

So Howard resolves he has to show him. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

It's Christmas Eve.

Howard barely sees the sun filtering through the blinds before he is leaping from his bed. A fresh new--and to be honest his final--attempt at a plan brewing in the forefront of his mind from the second he had tripped into consciousness that morning. He is so anxious to put it into action that the thought crosses his mind (fleetingly) to amble across the room and shake Vince awake. Waiting for him to wake naturally was going to be a punishment in and of itself. 

The only thing that stops him is the firm realisation that the more naturally this process can occur, the better for them both. 

So much like yesterday, he gets on while Vince sleeps. It's like clockwork, Howard's routine. Vince makes fun of him for it, the same thing day in day out, and that doesn't change on Christmas Eve either. The same breakfast is eaten while jazz is playing. The paper is read. Howard ensures the baked treats they have left are correctly packaged and preserved for maximum freshness.

This time though, at eleven, he doesn't toast bread for Vince. 

He instead mixes fresh pancake batter, and when Vince appears around the corner, blue eyes wide and inquisitive, he is pouring the mixture into a sizzling pan. Those eyes go wide first with surprise, but then shrink again with understanding. The smile he gives is a little anxious and edged with trepidation. At this point, Vince appears to be second guessing everything Howard does for him--even if it's out of kindness--and assumes there is an ulterior motive. Vince is afraid that making pancakes is another way Howard is trying to smother him in comforts. Which is exactly why, for the most part, Howard doesn't engage him. 

He bakes their breakfast in relative silence, only once asking Vince to grab plates from the cupboard, and then dishes the pancakes up with a soft smile. Vince looks at the food, and then back at Howard, and then gingerly sits to eat it. While Howard finds other things to do. 

This translates as Howard drawing a firm line under the existence of Father Christmas. As Vince eats, each bite laced with suspicion, Howard makes a point to go to the hall cupboard and dig out the sack--a literal sack--of Vince's Christmas presents. The younger man's eager gaze tracks him on every step of this journey, observing the bag as Howard hoists it over to their tree and begins unpacking boxes. 

They share wordless looks as this happens, Vince tense like he’s expecting another discussion. Howard doesn’t try though-- Vince likes to pretend he’s a beachball but Howard knows better. He’s not empty, he’s just heavily suppressed, and while he experiences fleeting surface emotions (tantrums, anger, joy) the deep emotions need to be coaxed from the depths of his hidden personality. 

Howard had been pushing too hard, he knows that now. 

So what he does instead is look at his watch and say, “You slept half our day away, it’s nearly lunch. You need to get dressed.” 

Vince blinks at him owlishly, glances between his unfinished pancakes and Howard's crouched form by the tree. “... Why?” 

“We’re going out.” Howard continues to set Santa's presents under the tree as he says it. Ensuring Vince doesn't feel too 'watched' as he processes this information. Howard is trying his best to mimic what most people would call 'casual detachment'. 

It only inspires Vince to narrow his eyes in further wariness. “On Christmas eve?” 

“Yes.” 

“But we never go out on Christmas eve.” 

Howard sighs as if this whole discussion was a burden to bear, and its clear that's exactly what Vince had been hoping for, because a ghost of a smirk twitches at his lips. “Well, we’ve not got to leave milk and biscuits tonight so might as well use the extra time to do something else, mightn’t we?” Howard explains. He makes a show of looking at his watch again. "Though you keep wasting our time like this and there'll likely be no point."

Vince is still just looking at him. He’s half off the chair, weight evenly distributed between his feet and his arse on the seat; he’s poised and ready to go but not yet convinced. He’s waiting for the off but there’s still that hint of distrust in his gaze, like he’s expecting Howard to reveal this as another plot to ‘get him back into the spirit’, which it is, but not the way Vince thinks. 

“You don’t have to come.” Howard says then, firm. “I will be going regardless. It’s up to you if you follow.” 

It’s that that convinces him. Vince is off and into the bedroom faster than Howard can blink. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

In the end, it takes only and hour and a half for Vince to get ready--which is a record for him--and it might have taken slightly less time had he not emerged in an outfit that Howard deemed _'not appropriate for the weather'_ and made him go put some layers on. The only reason Vince listened almost certainly had everything to do with how curious he was about their destination. 

Vince finally emerges in a fluffy sweater, tight jeans and black Chelsea boots. He's already tugging his coat over his shoulders, and for the first time in days, he is vibrating with all the energy of a nine-year-old on a sugar high. "Are we going or what?" He calls in agitation as Howard laces up his sensible shoes and responsibly ensures he has his keys, his wallet, his phone. Does he move a fraction slower just to wind Vince up? Of course he does. That's besides the point. 

They set off into the chilly December air together, barely a word exchanged between them. This silence, at least, is not Bourne from upset of a sense of displacement; rather a thrilling fizz of excitement. Howard bundles them into the van together and Vince is pressed against the window for the entire journey like an eager puppy. Howard is content just to watch him, rather than try to force conversation. Vince's wide eyes are tracking passing scenery, watching the people, scanning foliage. He's hoping to find answers. The younger man is terrible at navigating but Howard still sees him mouthing to himself in fascination with each turn they take, like he might be able to trace a map in the air and work out their final destination. 

He won't have much luck. Howard is fairly confident in his ability to pull off this surprise. 

Even as they arrive, and Vince can see it, is playing witness to the bright lights and crowds of people--his features are painted with a certain shade of disbelief that means he can't quite believe what he's looking at. Howard beams proudly, flicks the engine of their van off and waits for the younger man to make comment. 

“You hate it here.” Vince says, voice small and confused. “Every year I ask to come, and you always say no.” 

Which is true, but not because Howard hated it. 

He stares up at the giant sign that reads _‘Winter Wonderland’_. Hyde parks glamorous yearly attraction, full of fairground rides, open air bars serving mulled wine and hot chocolates. Gift stalls, sweet factories, lights as far as the eye could see. It was Vince’s Christmas daydream basically. 

And Howard had never brought him as long as they’d lived in the city. 

“I never said yes because I was worried about it ruining things for you.” Howard admits, closely followed by, “But I think I did that already didn’t I?” Vince’s wide eyes go a bit misty, but he doesn’t get a chance to answer. Howard is cutting him off. “Anyway, this isn’t about that.” 

“It’s not?” 

“No.” Howard shrugs. “This isn’t about replacing old traditions, it’s just about trying some new ones. Okay?” 

And sickeningly, Vince appears to need to think about the offer Howard is making. Now that he has phrased it like that, there's no mistaking what this is. Another attempt to make up for the mistake of Saint Nick, but not in a way Vince might have expected. This was Howard holding his hands up and saying, _I might have been terrible at that one particular part of Christmas, but I'd still like to enjoy it with you even if I'm going to have to suffer through many of my least favourite things to do it._

Vince thinks on this for a long time, and then, with a smile brighter than any of the industrial strength lights boasted by this Wonderland, he nods his head eagerly. "Okay," He says, followed by a cheeky wink. "First Hot Chocolate's on you, though." 

"Deal." 

And with that, they go. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

Vince has an amazing time.

Really, it likely didn't even need to be stated that Vince has an amazing time. For the first hour they don't even do anything, Vince is so enamoured with all the lights he simply drags Howard around by the arm to look at them all. Every cheesy animatronic reindeer and expertly lit up Christmas tree is given the same level of intense attention; Vince lingering in front of each one. The expression on his face the same look of wonder as the very first time he'd seen a Christmas tree. 

"That was my favourite bit as a kid!" He confesses shortly after they pause to bear witness to the fourth tree in a row. "When you let me help put up the tree--all the lights. I thought it was magic."

It takes all of thirty seconds for Howard to try and reply with something equally as sincere and for Vince to cut him off with a cry of, "Come on, there's lodes to do!" 

Today is not the day for Vince's sincerity, it seems. 

Even when they get to the part of the day that requires Howard to fish his wallet out (not only was the first hot chocolate on him, but so were the two after that and the inexplicably large bag of sweets Vince pleads for) he finds he can begrudge Vince anything. It's the most animated he has seen him in days, flitting from pillar to post. High on Christmas Spirit. He hums carols as they stroll past market stalls and Howard teases about Vince's still incomplete Christmas shopping. 

The sun sets at around 4pm thanks to the time of year, and Howard suggests they go on the large Ferris Wheel. Which, as it happens is the moment Howard finally sees _his_ Vince again. It isn't just happiness. It's radiance. It's the electric-zing of the soul Vince has always been, festive season or not. Howard feels a rush of relief from head to toe; a wave. Vince grins at him, and asks, "Really?" 

Howard's only answer is to hold out his hand, an offer. 

And Howard Moon has always been a man of many words; sometimes rather poetic words, but there isn't much to be said when they sit at the top of the Ferris wheel, all of London lit up beneath them. Even Vince is silent. They are pressed to one another's sides, a mutual sense of relief at this new beginning they are taking together. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Vince sighs wistfully. 

Turning his head to agree, Howard comes face to face with the younger man. Their eyes meet, Howard's stomach swoops. They just, look at each other. For the longest time, the rest of the world ceases to exist. They're suspended in the air but Howard's never felt more rooted and certain--it's a lightbulb moment. He swears, actually swears, he sees Vince's body tilt forward towards him but the jolt of the wheel rotating once more spooks them away from whatever had been blooming. 

And whatever that moment was, doesn't get mentioned the rest of their day. 

They share a glass of mulled wine as they look over some more market stalls. Vince points out an inflatable Santa and nudges at Howard's side, demonstrating his ability to now laugh at the past days angst. At one point, Howard loses track of Vince for about fifteen minutes and almost has to find a missing child warden to locate him. But almost as soon as he had begun to _really_ panic; the younger man reappears at his side again with a wide grin and a guilty smirk. 

"Where did you go?" Howard demands. 

"Nowhere." Vince sinks his teeth into his lower lip. "Ready to go home?" 

Howard narrows his eyes suspiciously, but at Vince's innocent insistence, Howard escorts them both to back to the comfort of the flat. And Howard chooses not to explore exactly _why_ Vince calls 'I'm going to bed, you stay up a bit later yeah?' before he hurried himself into their shared bedroom. Instead, he chooses to focus on the success that the day had been. Howard winds down into his evening on Christmas Eve confident that thing were all back to normal. 

Well, as normal as they can be. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

Christmas day; Howard wakes up with a start to the sensation of the sheets shifting around him. Blearily, he pries his eyes open and finds Vince is in the bed with him. Staring him straight in the face. It nearly gives him a heart attack, and Vince stats giggling gently as Howard clutches weakly at his chest. 

“God's sake!" He hisses into the dark, "Vince?”

“It wasn’t about Santa.” Vince whispers. 

“Vince what time is it?” 

“Four.” 

“Four am!?” 

“Yes, shush.” Vince shushes him, reaching out and planting his hand over Howard's mouth. Howard is so struck dumb he just listens. “It was never about Santa. I mean--It _was_ pretty disappointing, thinking the amount of presents I get every year is going to dramatically reduce. And knowing what a tit I must seem like to everyone for still believing but--” 

Howard drags Vince's dainty palm off his face, cradles it gently to his chest in his own large hand thoughtlessly. “No one thinks you're a tit.” 

“ _Shush_.” Howard rolls his eyes but remains silent. “But I wasn't just sad about Santa not being real. What made me sad was that you lied to me.” Which hits Howard right in the chest. He clings to Vince's hand harder. “It was thinking you thought you _needed_ to lie to make me happy.” 

Vince allows that statement to breathe. They lock eyes in the night and it's the first time that Howard notices that Vince is glowing. The moonlight filtering through their window and catching on his sharp features; catching delicate shadows and making him seem ethereal. Howard swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. 

“Santa wasn’t what I liked about Christmas Howard, it was a bonus, all them gifts, but that isn’t why I look forward to it every year. What I looked forward to was spending time with _you_ and your family. It was the one time of year everyone was just _happy._ Even you, you grumpy sod.” They both share a wet chuckles. Vince sniffling already and Howard feeling his own sympathy sniffles coming on. “So when I found out you’d lied about Santa I thought, well, what else is he lying about. Does he even like baking for me at Christmas. Does he even want to exchange presents, does he even care if we decorate the tree? And then you kept it all up but… but you always said it was to make me happy and I got so annoyed because I just wanted you to--” 

“Be happy too.” 

“Yeah.” 

Howard thinks he understands where he'd been going wrong all this time. Shamefully, he had forgotten that as much as Vince had a tendency to be a bit shallow and self-involved, he wasn't completely selfish. Howard's happiness was something Vince did take into consideration sometimes. 

“But yesterday you were. We did something new, and it was for no other reason than you wanted to, right?” Howard nods his head. Vince's smile lights up the room. “So that’s it. I’m not mad at you Howard, and I don’t need Santa to have a good Christmas. I just need you, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

They share a smile; something unfurls in Howard's chest similar to how it had at the peak of the Ferris wheel. It's a little terrifying. “Now can I sleep for a bit more before I have to get up?” 

“Oh… yeah, sorry.” Vince blinks, then flushes crimson, goes to slide from the bed but Howard’s hand on his wrist stops him. 

“You can…” Cleared throat. Awkward. Vince gets the message. He stays. Slides further under the sheets and rolls onto his side so he can toss his arms and legs over Howard's prone form. It's reminiscent of nights on the keepers hut floor--and Howard finds it much to easy to slide an arm under Vince's head and pull him closer. 

“Merry Christmas, Vince.” He whispers into the dark hair tickling at his cheek. 

Vince; not surprisingly, is already heaving deep breaths indicative of sleep. 

Howard drifts off. 

❄∘⁎⋆✶⋆⁎∘❄

Christmas day (after Howard get's a few more hours sleep) passes mostly without incident. 

That is until Vince appears at Howard's side with a little gift box in hand and insists he open it immediately despite the fact Howard is trying to chop veg for their Christmas Dinner. But he's insufferable, so Howard sighs and pops the lid off the box; only to find a sprig of Mistletoe. 

"What--" 

There's no point in asking, Vince plucks the plant from the box, and holds it obviously above their heads. In the blink of an eye, Vince rocks onto his toes and tosses his free arm around Howard's neck. Howard plants his hands at Vince's waist to hold his steady as their mouths meet. It's soft, and Vince is grinning the whole time. But Howard melts into it as if on command. 

Vince is still beaming when he pulls away, delivers one last peck to Howard's cheek, and declares, "Merry Christmas, Howard." 

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who has not had the absolute joy of witnessing Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland, it truly is a little slice of magic that comes to London every year--and it would be Vince's Christmas dream. 
> 
> Title for this piece from the Christmas song: Naughty List (Liam Payne)
> 
> As ever I can be found on tumblr:  
> @queen-boo / @anciientboosh


End file.
